Consummation
by geekmama
Summary: Con·sum·ma·tion (känsəˈmāSHən) - noun 1. The point at which something is complete or finalized. 2. The action of making a marriage or relationship complete by having sexual intercourse. "The eager consummation that follows a long and passionate seduction" 3. A series within a series (Honorable Intentions), eleven 100 word drabbles comprising "deleted scenes" from 'Intervention'
1. Revision

**~ Revision ~**

* * *

The ceiling was just visible in the grey light of dawn. He lay there, blinking at it.

Considered his breathing, heartbeat, the even rise and fall of his chest beneath the weight splayed half across him. A comfortable weight.

Molly. Sated, exhausted. _Beloved._

The concept of _la petite mort_ had always seemed the sort of romantic drivel used to lure the guileless. Extensive research (read: debauchery) conducted in his (misspent) youth had seemed to confirm the hypothesis.

Yet, this new study indicated that his method had been flawed, the results inaccurate.

And now he found himself _smiling_ at the ceiling.


	2. Awake

**~ Awake ~**

* * *

Sunlight slashed gold across the bed.

Molly lay still, her pulse quickening. The scent of sex, the touch of his firm, warm flesh were both balm and spur. She wanted to look at him in sleep, his strange beauty, his boyish innocence. Look and remember...

"Good morning."

In one smooth motion she was half beneath him, gasping, his knee between her legs. He lay his cupped hand carefully, possessively just _there_.

"All right, then?" he asked, a devilish glint in his eyes.

Her cheeks burned, but she said imperiously, "Again."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, deceptively meek.

She shivered in anticipation.


	3. Visible Evidence

_**~ Visible Evidence ~**_

* * *

Sunset found them starving. They bathed, dressed, and went out to Angelo's. The rogue took one look at them and burst into delighted laughter.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"No, no! Apologies!" Angelo grinned. He led them to a secluded table and brought champagne. "On the house," he said. "And it's Constantine. Angelo Constantine Garibaldi. In case you're looking for baby names." He winked and took himself off.

Molly gaped, flushing

"Constantine's not bad," Sherlock said provocatively, and took a sip.

She glared a bit. "I prefer _Mycroft."_

He choked but, recovering, managed hoarsely, "Hamish it is, then."

They toasted the decision.


	4. Extreme

_**~ Extreme ~**_

* * *

He was not inexperienced. His years at university had apparently been instructive in subjects far removed from academia. That array of information, combined with his formidable powers of deduction and an enhanced regard for her astonished self, might actually be the death of her.

Long after Angelo's, in the hours before dawn, she was shocked to find herself weeping after a particularly intense denouement. She blurted, "S-sorry! I'm sorry. It's just-"

"Hush," he said, his voice husky, kissing her lips, and the tears from her cheeks.

"You...you don't mind?"

"Molly, how should I mind? I was there, too. Remember?"


	5. First Time

_**~ First Time ~**_

* * *

Silk scarves were less abrasive on one's wrists than handcuffs, though it was possible Sherlock might have been able to pick the latter, even with Molly providing such exquisite distraction. The scarves were like her: beautiful, soft, but far stronger than they looked and quite unyielding in certain circumstances. These particular circumstances involved a talent for knots, gleaned from several years with the Girl Guides, and the stated goal of hearing him beg for release.

He'd told Irene he'd never begged in his life, and that was true enough. But Irene wasn't Molly… and somehow, surrender was no longer unthinkable.


	6. Mary Follows Up

_**~ Mary Follows Up ~**_

* * *

It was still early, but they were both exhausted and half asleep when Molly's phone chirped a text alert.

"Mary," she muttered. She scrabbled on the nightstand with one hand, and finding the phone, read, " _Weather hotting up at 221B? ;-)_ **"** The phone chirped again. **"** _Hugs to you and Shezzer._ And a thumbs up emoji, for heaven's sake!" Molly exclaimed. "How does she _know_ these things?"

"Errr… Magic? Useful for assassins."

Molly chuckled. "Be that as it may, I'm not replying."

"Good for you."

" _You_ didn't tell?"

."Nooo," said Sherlock, an odd smile in his voice. "As I said: Magic."


	7. The Scent of a Woman

_**~ The Scent of a Woman ~**_

* * *

Entering his flat, Sherlock sensed that something was amiss, and when he reached the bedroom he was certain of it.

Molly trotted in after him, smiling. "You're home! Do you like it?"

" _Like_ it?" He looked around. Neat as a pin, all evidence of their adventures entirely erased. "It's horrid. It _smells_ wrong."

"It smells like clean linen! And it had to be done. Mrs. Hudson's returned from her holiday!"

"The devil with Hudders!" he snapped, but, rounding swiftly, was pleased at his Molly's wide-eyed alarm. He caught her wrist in a firm grip and pulled her toward the bed.


	8. Inspired

_**~ Inspired ~**_

* * *

Molly woke to music. Tender phrases, haunting bits of melody, played over and over, then changing, continuing, with pauses of varying lengths between. She lay there listening for a long time before she finally got up.

He sensed her presence in the midst of his playing and greeted her with an odd smile. Then he paused again and, bending to the music stand, picked up a pencil and made some notation.

"You're composing?" She walked over to look.

"It… it's yours," he said. "It's been in my head a while now."

"Oh, Sherlock!" she whispered.

He'd titled the piece "Beloved".


	9. Revelation

_**~ Revelation ~**_

* * *

He found her body fascinating in a way he'd never experienced, and wondered, at first, why this should be so.

She was flesh and bone. Exquisitely proportioned, of course. Hair like heavy silk. Skin nearly flawless, save for a few freckles and the appendectomy scar he always kissed on journeys further south, eliciting such a delightful response.

Perhaps that was it: her reactions were predictable, yet infinitely varied. As satisfying as the best science. Or playing his violin.

But finally he realized it wasn't really any of those things.

For a smart man, he could be remarkably blind at times.


	10. Piquant

_**~ Piquant ~**_

* * *

She wrinkled her nose a bit. "You've been down to the pub with John and Greg."

He sighed. "Obvious, I suppose.."

"Well, you do taste of scotch and Silk Cuts."

"We were debriefing. And I thought you wanted me to be more social."

"Oh, yes. Of course. And I do understand the debriefing. I've been known to debrief, too, on occasion."

"Then I'm forgiven?"

"You are.."

"Shall I go-"

"No. Kiss me again."

"I thought you didn't like it."

"I didn't say that. It's not entirely unpleasant, and _you're_ delicious."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, quite," she affirmed, smirking, and drew him close.


	11. For Better or Worse

_**~ For Better or Worse ~**_

* * *

She had always been able to see him, more clearly than either of them would have preferred at times. But she loved him, and that meant _for better or worse._

There were many fine examples. Their parents. John and Mary. If there was hope for a risk-addicted army doctor and his black ops assassin...

"Stop worrying and come to bed." She took his hand.

"I'm not worrying."

"You are, and you shouldn't."

"But I'm not tired," he teased. He took her in his arms.

She smiled up at him. "What do you need?"

"Only you," he replied, and kissed her.

~.~


End file.
